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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221947">Wanderings in the Young Continent: The Travails and Triumphs of the Thornstriders</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdrake/pseuds/Nightdrake'>Nightdrake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons and Dragons - Fandom, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, Other, Plot Twists, Work In Progress, more tags to come</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:41:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdrake/pseuds/Nightdrake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This fiction is based off of and inspired by a homebrew Pathfinder campaign that I engage in currently. The main characters were each created by the respective players, while the world, with its locations and groups and events, all belong to our GM. This is done with the express consent of all parties involved. So, without further ado, let's jump into it.</p>
<p>Welcome to Nyel! It is a world of empires and kingdoms, war and prosperity, heroes and monsters. We set our stage in Thorn, the Young Continent, a land that the Common Races have only come to settle in the past five hundred years. In that time, cities and kingdoms and even an empire have risen (and fallen), while the people of them all have battled one another for everything you can imagine and more. Now, we find ourselves tracing the travels and exploits of a small group of Thorn's inhabitants, drawn together by chance as they confront the many forces that seek to take the Young Continent and its denizens for their own. Their decisions- whether to fight or follow, unite or divide- will change this land, possibly even all the world.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: Soren Wyrmborn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Special thanks to the GM and other players for giving the go-ahead for this chronicle, and for helping me to create the story that I now commit to writing (or typing, I guess).</p>
<p>Before we come to where the campaign begins, there will be a four-part "prologue" that introduces the Thornstriders. These will be shorter than the official chapters, but hopefully the readers will nonetheless learn things they think important before the adventure gets underway.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Blood of Ahmund, why do the gods delight in torturing me like this?!”</p><p><em>Maybe because you are as stubborn as those rocks you cart around, </em>Soren replied silently. Out loud he said, “Come off it, Harsk. How many times did I warn you about the cart’s wheel?”</p><p>“I said it then and say it again now, she’s handled worse than a few dips in a road. What would you have had me do?” The dwarf did not wait for a reply as he walked about, grabbing at one of the marble slabs the cart had divested. With what looked to be a great effort, Harsk heaved the rock onto his shoulders and hobbled to the cart’s rear, face red as he handed it off to Eric. The older man managed it well enough, managing to tip the marble over the cart’s edge so that it fell back into place.</p><p>“There we go,” Harsk declared, his beard scraping the ground as he nodded, his tone satisfied. “We lost some chips and dust, true, but nothing big enough to worry about.”</p><p>“That still leaves the wheel,” Soren pointed out. Harsk was his elder by decades, but the dwarf sometimes acted as though he was still a stripling. “Windhollow is only an hour or so down the road by foot, and much less by horse. Perhaps we could send someone on ahead, see if they can provide some assistance.”</p><p>“HA! And leave the rest of us waiting for bandits or beasts to find and take us?! No, thank you!” Harsk glanced at Soren. “You’re the caster, aren’t you? That is why I keep hiring you, boy. Fix the wheel.”</p><p><em>His ears must be stone as well. </em>“I am a sorcerer, Harsk. I cannot simply open a book and then cast a spell. Don’t you think I would have done so already if I could?”</p><p>“Then what the hell am I paying you for?”</p><p>“The pleasure of my company, of course. That, and employing a caster is the best contingency one can have.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” The dwarf’s expression was amused as he looked at Soren. “Then who should go ahead?”</p><p>“Eric, clearly.” Soren looked towards the older man. “He’s the one with the horse that isn’t dragging the cart. The day is still young enough, he could be back with another rider and wheel before the sun begins to dip, and we will be in Windhollow well before sunset.”</p><p>Harsk nodded. “Aye, that is sense.” He looked towards Eric. “You sure you can ride that fast, my friend?”</p><p>“Screw you.” But Soren thought Harsk had a point. Eric was an experienced sellsword- he had been riding the roads of Icekard and Willom since before Soren had been born and knew every trick of his trade. But he was approaching fifty, an age almost unheard of for a mercenary, and his body could not take the strains it once could anyone could see that.</p><p>Eric clearly had no intention of admitting that, though. He kicked into his horse’s sides and with that he was off, his horse going from a walk to a cantor in moments. Before long, he was out of sight, leaving Soren and Harsk alone with the broken cart.</p><p>The dwarf sighed as he walked to the road’s edge, putting his back against a tree before sliding to sit at its base. “Ah, I am getting too old for this, Soren. I cannot count the times I’ve taken shipments from home to Willom or Zedun or beyond, but I feel this journey more than the others.”</p><p>“I imagine Eric might feel the same.” Soren was barely half Eric’s age, watching his companions from the comfortable place of twenty-four years. Young for a human, which made him even younger when measured against the life of an old dwarf like Harsk. He could not imagine looking or feeling as old as Harsk did now. He normally looked hale and hearty, but at the moment Harsk looked tired, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.</p><p>“Ha, most like. Though I think he has a few years left on the road yet.” Harsk looked down the road towards where their companion had ridden. “He has a wife, I know that much. Some little ones, maybe?”</p><p>“A boy, fourteen.” Soren shrugged. “Their home is in Brigham Fel, same as me. We knew one another before you set out that contract.”</p><p>“Small world. What are the odds?”</p><p>“I’m not sure.” Truth be told, Soren had not been surprised to find Eric in Maznak- at the edge of Icekard, near the elvish border, the city often found itself paying host to those who crossed the isthmus between the cold southern country and the rest of Thorn. Soren had gone there often in the past several years, his travels in the western part of the continent practically requiring it.</p><p> Soren stretched before reaching for his spear, leaned up against the cart. As he was a sorcerer, most thought the weapon unnecessary, but casters had limits, and when they were reached, a good weapon was all that stood between them and disaster. Soren then walked up to lean against the tree Harsk was sitting under.</p><p>Harsk stretched. “It’s been a while since I made a journey without armor. I almost feel naked. How do you do it, Wyrmborn?”</p><p>“There are other ways of shielding yourself than with metal.” Soren was more than capable of ensuring that no limb or blade could reach him- never especially strong, he was light on his feet, and he had learned how to shield himself with his power years ago. Still, he knew better than to take security for granted, and continued to scan the plains beyond the cluster of trees they found themselves waiting in. <em>A good place for an ambush, if a little obvious. We are lucky there are none prowling this day.</em></p><p>“Look at that.” Soren followed Harsk’s pointing finger to find a hawk in the sky above, making lazy circles as it rode the wind. As they watched it turned east, rising with the wind as it was swiftly borne away. “Must be something, being able to fly like that.”</p><p>“I thought dwarves weren’t fond of heights?”</p><p>“Not open air, no, but then no one is except for birds and dragons and other flyers. Do you think we could carve homes out of the mountains if we could not stand being up high? So long as we have sure footing, height means nothing to us, in work or battle.” Harsk chuckled. “You know, that reminds me of tales my Ma used to tell me. She always warned about being in the open too long, especially where there were no caves near enough to shelter in. She’d say, ‘go ahead and laugh, but when a wyrm even bigger and meaner than Av’rice decides he wants a snack and you look tasty; you won’t be laughing then.’” Harsk was laughing now, the dwarf’s voice echoing in the trees and plains around them.</p><p>Eventually subsiding, Harsk looked about them. “Well, this seems safe enough. I cannot think of any dragons that like open ground like this. Big and strong, but they like cover, don’t they?”</p><p>“Most of them, from what I’ve heard,” Soren replied vaguely, brushing some of his bronze hair from his face as the wind rose. For a moment he was tempted to share some of knowledge on the subject, to inform the dwarf that the lands around them were more hospitable to some dragons than Harsk thought. But Soren almost immediately rejected the notion- little good would come of it. <em>No sense putting him on edge without need.</em></p><p>As they waited, Soren found himself wondering what would come once they reached Windhollow. Harsk would likely pay a fair wage for him and Eric to take him back to Icekard, but the road still called to the young sorcerer. The elves of Willom were not exactly trusting of humans, but their cities had jobs and tasks that needed doing, and they would not refuse to contract one from another race to complete them. Then again, the place where Soren’s skills best shone was in exploration and battle, both of which were lacking in the settled parts of Thorn. That would mean traveling east towards Zedun, or perhaps even north into the Barrens. <em>I have always wanted to see Thunderhead. Maybe I can find a caravan to Demonhold, perhaps.</em></p><p>Soren was still contemplating where he would go after Windhollow when Eric returned to him and Harsk. With him were a pair of elves, dressed in light combat gear while bearing bows and swords. One of their horses carried a wheel that matched Harsk’s cart perfectly. The elves looked bored, as though this sort of thing happened all the time. Still, that did not stop the one with the wheel from dismounting and, once the wheel was on the ground, rolling it to the cart’s side. Soren and Harsk both rose and came to help Eric and the second elf lift the cart while the first took off the broken wheel and put the new one in its place. Once that was done, she looked at Harsk. “Have any nails and a hammer?”</p><p>“Afraid not. Sorry, I lost my tool kit back in Talyn’s Bend.”</p><p>The she-elf’s mouth twitched into a smile. “A dwarf without a kit. That’s a new one.”</p><p>Her companion sighed as he walked back to his horse. He came back after a few moments with some rope, which he proceeded to loop around the wheel and axle before tying it tightly. He pulled on it a few times before nodding. “That should do until we reach the city. I trust you have the coin to pay for repairs.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t be much of a merchant if I did not have any money handy.” Harsk barked a laugh. He walked over to the cart’s front and lifted himself into the driver’s place, taking up the carthorses’ reins. Soren mimicked Harsk on the other side of the cart, settling into place next to him. The dwarf snapped the horses’ reins, causing them to snort before they began pulling. Sure enough, the cart lurched forward before settling into the grooves on the road. Eric fell in behind them while the elves rode just ahead.</p><p>Soren glanced at Harsk before raising his voice to speak to the new arrivals. “Is there any news from Demonhold or Zedun?”</p><p>The elves glanced at one another before the male turned to look back at Soren. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>“My contract with this one’s only until Windhollow,” Soren replied, gesturing towards Harsk. “I thought there might be word of work to be had in Thorn’s farther parts.”</p><p>The elf contemplated his words for a few moments before shaking his head. “Nothing new, per say. There are reports of demons and their ilk about Thunderhead, but that has been the case for a while now. Zedun’s always looking for bodies to throw into the desert, to find some old ruin or deal with some Outer Race troublemakers.”</p><p>“Hmm.” None of this was news to Soren. The prospect of dealing with orcs or drow did not appeal to him, and like any man of Icekard he was not a fan of the desert. <em>Suppose that leaves Demonhold, then. That, or the road back to Icekard, or maybe north towards Belenor.</em></p><p>The thought of Willom’s capital brought another thought to mind. “And what of the High Prince’s son? We heard a rumor he was missing?”</p><p>“Ah, yes,” Harsk nodded. “Boy decided to run off with a fancy of his, the way I heard it. Beautiful but common-born, no doubt.”</p><p>“The man didn’t say that,” called Eric from behind them. “Forgive Harsk, he enjoys spinning a tale when it suits him. Most like the Prince’s son just got drunk and spent a couple of nights in the woods. I expect he’s back by now?”</p><p>Soren looked back towards the elves once Eric had his say, surprised to see their expressions had become guarded. Seeking to ease the sudden tension, he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “We do not mean any offense or harm. It is just, news like this can make people anxious, you know?”</p><p>The elves nodded at his words, their faces softening, but neither of them answered Soren’s initial question. Taking the hint, he and the others quieted down as they all continued down the road.</p><p>Before much longer, they had reached Windhollow. The gates were open but guarded, a small checkpoint keeping note of the people who entered. Fortunately, the elves with them were clearly known to the guards, who waved them through along with Harsk, Soren, and Eric. Once they were inside, Harsk got directions to take him towards the market, as well as a carpenter to help with the cart.</p><p>After hearing all this, Eric coughed conspicuously. “Well, Harsk, it’s the end of the line.” The sellsword held out his hand.</p><p>“What, that is it? No ‘it’s been a pleasure’ or ‘hope to see you again’?” Harsk rolled his eyes at Soren.</p><p>Soren replied by holding out his own hand as well. Harsk stared before bursting into laughter. “Ha, you are cut from the same cloth.”</p><p>“Because we want our pay for a job done well? You just described all the people I’ve ever met.”</p><p>Harsk laughed again before taking out a heavy coin-purse. After rummaging through it, he reached out and placed ten gold pieces in each of their hands. Soren examined them closely to make sure they had not been clipped, then nodded at the dwarf. Eric did the same.</p><p>“Are you sure there’s no way for me to hire you for the journey back?” Harsk said, looking at them both. “Solid pay, same as this. And we will not be carrying marble, most like, so it’ll be a faster journey.”</p><p>“Thanks, but no thanks.” Soren shrugged. “I’ll make my own way. Head north, maybe.”</p><p>“Ah, yes, I know what you’re thinking.” Harsk wagged a finger at Soren. “Just remember, mind the forests of Banegrove if you ever venture that way. Don’t want dark elves making off with you in the middle of the night.”</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind.” The sorcerer held out his hand, which the dwarf took. “Farewell, Harsk Blackburn.”</p><p>“Farewell, Soren Wyrmborn. If you ever find yourself in Maznak again, seek me out.” Harsk turned and said his goodbyes to Eric before returning to his cart and leading it further into the city towards the marketplace.</p><p>Soren turned to Eric. “Why not take his offer? Might as well be paid on the way back to Icekard.”</p><p>“I do not want to wait for him to finish selling his rocks to be on the road.” Eric sighed. “Times are changing, I can feel it. You can almost…smell it, you know?”</p><p>“Av’rice’s teeth, you sound old.” Soren laughed at the sellsword’s annoyed expression. “Glare all you want, it’s true. The only people I have ever heard say things like ‘smell the change’ or ‘feel it in my bones’ are very wise and very old, and we both know wise is something you are not.”</p><p>Eric’s glare melted into exasperation. “True enough, I am not wise. But I am not so old that I cannot kick your ass from here to Arbidon and back. I can, magic or not.”</p><p>Soren laughed again, with Eric joining him. After they finished, the latter asked, “I’m headed to the castle. Best to make sure there’s nothing we should know about from the highborn’s.”</p><p>“It’s an inn for me.” Soren sighed. “I need some food besides rations, and a decent drink.”</p><p>“That’s all? I’d have thought you’d be looking for someone to warm you up after all those cold, lonely nights.” Eric waggled his brows at the younger man.</p><p>“You are lucky your wife is not here to listen to you try and corrupt me.” Soren smirked. “Besides, you know how…refined elves are. That particular trade is discouraged in these parts.”</p><p>“Who said anything about a trade?” Eric shrugged. “Ah well, I guess I’ll have to console the poor pretties whose heads you turn.”</p><p>“Get going, old man, or I swear the first thing I’ll do when I get back to Brigham Fel is take your boy to a brothel and tell his mother it was your idea.” Soren turned and walked away, still smiling as the older man’s yelled threats at the back of his head.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Prologue: Malfias the Black Blade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The man took his time dying.</p><p>He was trying to crawl away from Malfias, leaving blood in his wake as the bandit dragged himself forward. Malfias sighed before following him. Before the man could turn, he quickly shoved his longsword downward, through the back of his throat. The bandit grabbed at it, shuddering and choking for a few moments before his body relaxed, finally surrendering to death.</p><p>With a grunt, Malfias pulled his sword free, brushing a lock of garnet hair from his face as he did. Malfias did not enjoy suffering like this, even when those in pain had attacked him without provocation. It spoke poorly of him and his skills that his opponent had lingered after the fight was done. Malfias leaned down and wiped his blade clean, its obsidian sheen returning once the blood was gone.</p><p>As he stood up and sheathed his sword Malfias surveyed the scene around him. This bandit and his fellows had outnumbered him, but that was the only advantage they had possessed. Armed with chipped blades and dull axes, wrapped in armor that would have made the least-skilled leatherworker laughing, the four of them had clearly hoped to catch the Black Blade off-guard. Another giveaway of their stupidity- the plains around them offered little cover to ambush someone in, save for the occasional copse of trees. The smarter move would have been to gauge where Malfias was going and dig themselves some nooks, wait for him to pass all or some of them and then pop up and attack. <em>Though from the looks of their gear, it would not have helped much.</em></p><p>Malfias did a cursory inspection of the dead men. Other then a loose coin here or there, nothing was to be had. Shaking his head at the mess, he stood and resumed walking south.</p><p>The road was a quarter mile to Malfias’ east if he was right. Most travelers preferred to go by road, thinking such things safer, but that tended to be the case only if they moved in numbers. Malfias was on his own at the moment, making his travels swifter but also more dangerous. So, as a countermeasure he avoided roads, instead moving cross-country until he knew himself near a settlement.</p><p>He did not have long to wait. Before long, a distant shadow on the horizon grew before him until he could make out the outline of a city. Once he could see it properly, Malfias turned to return to the road, only resuming his trek south once his feet me the well-established dirt that led to the city.</p><p>Windhollow was a young settlement, and it showed. Its walls were large and sturdy enough, but they were made of wood instead of stone, as might have been found in one of Thorn’s older or wealthier cities. Within it, Malfias knew the roads were the same as the one he walked now, well-established but dirt, with little cobbling or stonework to be found. Still, he did not hold any of that against Windhollow- many great places had small beginnings, and this city had potential, no matter its look.</p><p>Approaching the city also meant trying to blend in some. With that in mind, Malfias removed a cloth from his bag and wrapped it around his head, bandana-style. After debating with himself for a moment more, he took more of the cloth and wrapped it around his right hand, obscuring the Pact Seal on his palm. Malfias then raised the hood of his robe over his head and lowered it, appearing to keep his eyes to the ground. His appearance was not something he was ashamed of, but he had learned it was not wise to reveal his appearance without first getting a feel for the place he was entering.</p><p>As he came towards its northern gate, Malfias saw that a small group was waiting just outside. From the gear, he could see that some of them were guards, elves armed with bows and blades that were inspecting the instruments and wagons of the party in front of him. From the former, Malfias guessed that he was looking at a mummer’s troupe, looking to set up shop and dance and sing for Windhollow’s inhabitants. Malfias enjoyed such things, so long as they were well-done.</p><p>As he watched, the elves finished their inspection and came together. After murmuring for some moments, they stepped to the roads sides and waved the wagons through the open gate. With creaks form the wood and nickers from the horses pulling them the mummers moved forward, entering Windhollow. The Black Blade was almost among them, so quickly did he move.</p><p>But he did not escape the guard’s notice. “Hey, hold up there.” One of the elves, taller and more burly than his fellows, walked to stand between Malfias and the city’s entrance. “Sorry, friend, we have to make sure you don’t have any contraband on you. It’s a pain but has to be done.”</p><p>“Alright then.” Malfias had stopped but nodded at the guard’s words. “Just try not to be spooked.”</p><p>“Spooked?” The speaker was one of the big elf’s slimmer compatriots, his voice amused. “We could not call ourselves guards if we spooked easily.”</p><p>The larger elf motioned towards Malfias’ sword. After hesitating for a moment, Malfias unsheathed it and held it out for examination. The elf took it and held it in his hands for a moment before raising it, looking down the point of its jet-black blade. “Never seen anything like this. Paint?”</p><p>“No, that’s its color. No idea why.”</p><p>“Hmm.” The guard took out a knife and put its point to the sword, as though trying to peel the black away, but got nothing for its trouble except for the screech of metal against metal. He shrugged before returning the blade to Malfias, who quickly sheathed it.</p><p>Once that was done, the guard came forward and patted Malfias down. He did not resist, narrowing his eyes to slits as the burly elf came to look around his head. The guard did not remove Malfias’ bandana or hood, fortunately, and he also refrained from pulling at the bandages on his hand. Those held the only obvious things that would set them on edge. <em>Not easily spooked? Perhaps, but not thorough either.</em></p><p>Once they were done, the guard who had searched Malfias waved him through. Malfias nodded before quickly striding in, thankful he had come through without drawing notice.</p><p>Inside, Windhollow buffeted Malfias with noise. Despite or perhaps even because of its still-wild territory and nature, the settlement was humming with activity. It was in the late afternoon, and while the sun had not yet set Malfias was already thinking on the night, when the city gates closed and much of Windhollow would sleep. While not nearly as interesting as during daytime, it was easier for him to move about without having to obscure his appearance.</p><p>For now, though, he would have to keep his head down until Malfias knew precisely what the mood of the city was. With that goal in mind, Malfias thought on where to go to figure that out. For a moment he considered heading to the castle, but quickly discarded that idea- while information would undoubtedly be there, if might also draw attention, which was to be avoided. <em>That leaves a tavern or an inn. I could use a decent bed anyway.</em></p><p>After deciding on that, Malfias turned his head as he listened to the noises around him. After a minute, he found the greatest amount of it and followed it, figuring it would take him either directly to an inn or the marketplace. His instincts were rewarded when he found himself at the end of a long row of market stalls and shops. Malfias walked forward with a steady pace, lowering his hood as he did. His ears, long and pointed, were too much of both to be an elf’s but he judged it busy enough in this place that none would pay it much mind. He made a show of perusing the merchandise, while once again turning his ears to try and pick out information he thought he could use.</p><p>“Jewelry! Gems and jewelry! The finest of elven craftsmen from Belanor itself!”</p><p>“Marble! Uncarved, pure marble from Maznak! For a throne, a street, or even a fireplace, show your neighbors what you’re worth!”</p><p>“Come one, come all, for the best pies this side of Banegrove! Apple, peach, berry- you name it, we have it!”</p><p>“Weary of the dullness and tedium of your day? Take a moment to be whisked away to parts both familiar and unknown, with heroes and villains, monsters and knights!”</p><p><em>Of course. </em>Kicking himself mentally for not thinking of it sooner, Malfias turned to follow the voice describing the worlds that awaited. Doing so led him away from the central part of the marketplace to a small meadow, left undeveloped amidst the wooden homes and shops in this part of Windhollow. Setting up at the other end were the wagons that had entered the city just before Malfias had. The troupe were preparing to perform, the musicians strumming lutes and testing flutes while lamps were hung though not yet lit. The wagon in the center was the largest by far, and with a swish its middle opened, the curtains revealing an open stage with a background depicting a forest glade with the moon and stars hanging above the trees. Malfias barely had time to take that in before the curtains closed, obscuring the stage these performers would use.</p><p>“Sir! Excuse me, you there!” Malfias turned to find one of the wagon drivers from the gate approaching him. This one was a man, tall and strong with black hair and fair skin. His was not a muscular strength, more wiry than burly. Still, Malfias sensed that this one knew his way with a weapon, and that made him tense slightly despite the trouper’s friendly expression.</p><p>“Fancy a peek before the main event?” The driver shook his head. “Shame on you, sir, for wanting to spoil the show for yourself. Don’t you know its better for the tale to be revealed slowly rather than skipping through to see the ending?”</p><p>“I do.” Malfias mustered up a rueful look. “Apologies, I did not mean to intrude. It is just that I heard your crier back in the marketplace and thought to come see what might be in store.”</p><p>“Ah, I can respect that.” The driver stuck out a hand. “Name’s Darvin, wagon driver and flutist.”</p><p>Malfias took the hand gingerly. “Malfias, called the Black Blade by some.”</p><p>“The Black Blade?” Darvin’s expression became thoughtful. “A peer of mine boasted to me of a warrior he’d met who went by that moniker. ‘Tall and strange, more doom-driven than anyone I have ever met’. Thought he was just talking tall, but perhaps I was wrong.”</p><p>“You know Cale? Cale Valentine?” It sounded like something the too clever halfling would say. <em>Nothing will stop that fool of a bard from talking, it would seem.</em></p><p>“Just the one! It’s nice to see we have an acquaintance in common.” Darvin looked Malfias up and down, his eyebrows raising as he took in the black-robed figure. “I see what he meant. Forgive me for saying so, but you do have a sense of…of something about you. Not sure I would call it doom, but something for sure.”</p><p>“To each his own.” Malfias shrugged, ignoring the warmth emanating from the Pact Seal on his palm. It always did that at the most inopportune times. “I don’t suppose there are any tales or rumors you heard on the road. I’ve been in the wilds for some time and have not been able to keep up as it were.”</p><p>“Ah, well you’ve asked the right man.” Darvin grinned. “Truth be told, Willom’s in a bit of a state. Word is the High Prince’s son is missing, for one. His Grace is in a right state from what I have heard. And he is not the only one, apparently. The Duke of Windhollow has not been seen in public for a while. I heard one sot say that he and the Prince’s heir ran off together, but that’s foolishness, nothing more.”</p><p>Malfias was hardly impressed by any of this. <em>Why must politics always come up first? </em>“Is there anything, ah, <em>useful</em> you can tell me of?”</p><p>“Well, there’s a new mercenary company making a name for itself- the Dark Legion, that’s the name. Bit fancy, if you ask me, but no one has. Rumor has it they are establishing themselves all over the place, here in Willom and Zedun, even parts of Icekard some say. Rude bunch, but they know how to fight apparently, so no one’s complaining too loudly. Looking to hire too, but no grunts, they have enough of those. You could make fair coin if you were willing to join up.”</p><p>Malfias was not. While he had worked as part of groups several times, he valued his autonomy too much to sign with an organization of the sort the Dark Legion seemed to be. And besides, a name like that was a warning in and of itself, not that many would heed it. <em>There are always idiots willing to pay for idiots with swords to fix their problems.</em></p><p>After making of show of thinking on Darvin’s words, Malfias nodded. “My thanks. I feel like I’m imposing, but do you know any good place to find a bed and food?”</p><p>“Oh, you want the Fair Wind’s Inn.” Darvin turned and pointed. “Head south until you find where the market hits the road running between the east and west gates, then turn right. It’s on a corner, not far from the west gate. Sign with some clouds and some lines that are supposed to be wind out front. It’s about, oh, a five- no, ten-minute walk from here.”</p><p>Malfias looked at the flutist quizzically. “I thought you just got here. How do you know Windhollow so well?”</p><p>Darvin laughed. “I may have just got here, but this is far from my first time. Windhollow and I know each other very well. We do our best business here, truth be told. Anyway, I hope you come back for the show. We have quite the treat tonight- ‘The Dance and Death of the Dragon Tyrant’, a classic in the Galvan Empire.” Darvin began to turn away but paused before glancing back at Malfias. “No disrespect, but you look as though you could use some new gear. The chain looks sturdy enough, but if I were you, I might fancy something to go along with it. Those burns on your cheeks should be looked at too unless you’re angling to get some scars for the ladies.”</p><p>“Thanks for the advice.” Malfias managed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. This was not the first time someone had mistaken his scales for burns, and while he suspected this one would not care one way or the other, it was better to be safe than sorry. As for the armor, Malfias had never felt the need to cover himself in heavy metal for protection- speed in movement and thinking were his preferred tools for avoiding harm.</p><p>Turning, Malfias began following Darvin’s directions, heading south while keeping his eyes and ears open. As he did, the Pact Seal became warm once again, as if urging him onwards towards something he did not yet know of.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The next chapter will include two party members, but will be from only one of their POV's. No disrespect intended- the other character will get chapters as well when the story begins.</p><p>Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Prologue: Irthus Spirespite and Tolgore the Wild</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just to confirm, both Irthus and Tolgore are POV characters. But I flipped a coin to see which one the prologue would be and the former won. Don't worry, we'll be seeing from Tolgore the Wild's perspective soon enough.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Draelands were a vast place, full of rolling plains with some isolated forests and rock formations that looked as though some god had picked them from a mountain and placed them wherever they pleased. The sky looked bigger than should have been possible, with clouds scattered about like a herd of sheep would on an open meadow. The cries of birds and beasts echoed in the open space, noises capable of making one shiver with excitement and wonder as the world yawned open all around them. Someone with the imagination could even take the time to imagine constructs in such a place, picking a spot and picturing a fortress jutting out, armies clashing in the open fields, dragons or griffins descending to battle armored heroes. Truly, this was a place for one such as Irthus Spirespite.</p><p>At least, it would have been if not for the company. “How much farther?”</p><p>Irthus sighed as he looked towards his companion. “Windhollow is less than an hour west. No need to worry.”</p><p>“I am not worried, just bored.” Tolgore scowled at the emptiness around them. “I hoped the two of us alone on the road might be enough to bait robbers or beastmen, but we have not seen hide nor hair of the cowards.”</p><p>“Well, we are not exactly typical travelers,” Irthus pointed out. His words were a bit of stretch regarding himself- Irthus’ clothes were ordinary, looking nothing but that of an explorer to the discerning eye. Same with his backpack. Admittedly, the crossbow he carried and the quiver of bolts slung over his shoulder with his backpack would give any potential troublemakers a moment’s pause, but nothing about the elf screamed “very dangerous”.</p><p>The opposite applied to Tolgore. Standing a head above typical man and rippling with muscle, no one could mistake him for anything <em>but </em>dangerous. His lack of armor did not detract from that- if anything, it added to it, as though his lack of heavy armor implied that Tolgore need not bother with such things. Besides pelts furs for wrist guards and boots, the only protection he wore was a shoulder pad and breastplate that only covered the barbarian’s left shoulder. His wild looks and expression, along with the sharp pickaxe he carried in his hand, only cemented the impression one formed when they first looked at the barbarian. That impression was usually along the lines of “do not fuck with if you like living”.</p><p>Irthus turned to look west as they continued moving down the road. He thought he could make out the distant outline of Windhollow, something he pointed out to Tolgore. His companion shrugged. “If you say so, elf. What does your little friend say?”</p><p>Irthus cocked a head as he reached out to Tony. After a few moments, the elf shook his head. “He’s too far for now. I’m sure he will tell me once he is close enough.”</p><p>“If you say so,” the barbarian replied, not bothering to hide his skepticism. Not waiting for his companion to reply, Tolgore walked forward, his stride lengthening. <em>Such a hurry. Is it boredom, or hunger?</em></p><p>Irthus sighed before quickening his pace to keep up with Tolgore’s. The raven-haired barbarian was constantly restless, a condition that was exacerbated by a lack of violence. In many places such an attitude may have been considered “criminal”, but Tolgore’s native land and upbringing were far from the more formalized conventions and practices of the civilized parts of Thorn. On top of that, the warrior spirit and thirst for battle Tolgore exhibited had saved him and Irthus both on several occasions, making it difficult to fault him for anything short of cold-blooded murder.</p><p>Half an hour or so further down the road, Irthus felt a sudden surge of eagerness, dulled with a bit of caution but strong all the same. The elf turned his eyes upward where, sure enough, a small shape was quickly growing larger. Before long, his familiar Tony was in plain sight, circling as he made his way downward to Irthus. After completing his circuits, the hawk alighted on his shoulder, nibbling at the elf’s ear in a gesture of affection. Irthus reached that side’s arm up to stroke the feathers on Tony’s head. “There is no danger, at least none that he can see.”</p><p>“He’s a bird,” Tolgore replied, rolling his eyes. “Sharp eyes, maybe, but a city’s a city. There’s plenty he could have missed.”</p><p>“He sees more than you know,” Irthus said reprovingly. “A wizard’s familiar is more than it seems, I’ve told you that before. Recall the time he found that grave robber before we even got to the dig site?”</p><p>Tolgore laughed. “Aye, I remember that. Man didn’t know what hit him, not until my pickaxe took him between the eyes.”</p><p>Irthus mustered a smile at that. The grave robber had not been the first he had encountered and would not be the last. That was part of his lot as an archaeologist- to go places where tales and folklore loved to suggest treasures and wonders were hidden, then deal with both others who would disturb such places and whatever was left within to guard against intruders. He had managed well enough on his own or with hired help, but Tolgore had made his tasks even simpler due to his almost preternatural skill in battle. For all that, he was no scholar, at least not in the conventional sense.</p><p>A sharp nip to his ear reminded Irthus of his duties. He gave Tony a rueful look before reaching into one of the small bags on his belt and pulling out a piece of meat, a leftover from his and Tolgore’s meal two nights past. The hawk chirped at the smell and sight of food. Irthus chuckled before holding it out between two fingers, nodding approvingly as his familiar gingerly reached out and took it in his beak, as gently as a horse taking a sugar cube from an indulgent rider.</p><p>Before much longer, Irthus and Tolgore found themselves at the gate of Windhollow. The sun was low enough that some of the taller buildings came between it and them, and by the time they got to the gate the wall completely hid it. The guards were quick to wave Irthus through, inclined to give a fellow elf the benefit of the doubt even as they cast wary eyes at his rough and chiseled companion.</p><p>As they came into the city, Tolgore inhaled deeply through his nose. “Ah, now that’s something I never get tired of- the scent of so many hitting you the first time you walk into a settlement. So many different hints of steel or sweat or smoke or blood. It’s so different from the Barrens.”</p><p>“That it is,” Irthus agreed. After thinking for a few moments, the archaeologist chuckled. “Ironic, isn’t it? The fact that, no matter how many cities or kingdoms rise and fall, we always end up coming together in places like this once again. Take Zedun- The Ozmandian Empire is not even three hundred years dead, there are still those of my race who can remember fighting it, and yet we press on in our quest for wealth and power and knowledge as though nothing has changed. Do you think we’ll ever learn, Tolgore?”</p><p>There was no reply. Irthus glanced to his side, finding that his companion was no longer there. Whipping his head around, the elf realized Tolgore was nowhere to be seen. “Oh, for the love of Sarin!” Irthus kicked himself mentally for allowing the barbarian to escape his attention. He turned and urged Tony onto his hand before launching the familiar into the air. As he did, he said aloud, “Find him, old friend. He can’t have gone far.” Irthus backed up his words by sending a sense of concern and confusion towards Tony, emotions he often felt when dealing with Tolgore.</p><p>Tony did not go far. He began doing circles that grew in diameter above Irthus and Windhollow as he searched for Tolgore. After a few moments, the hawk suddenly dove, sending a sense of recognition and urgency towards Irthus. The elven wizard quickly followed his familiar, heading deeper into the city.</p><p>As it turned out, Tolgore had found the perfect outlet for his hunger. Irthus found him in front of a stand, devouring what had to be one of the bloodiest meat-pies the elf had ever seen. The vendor looked nervous, standing to the side as he watched the barbarian tear though a pie and then grab at another. Irthus bit his lip to keep from saying anything rash as he walked upon the scene. On the store’s gutter Tony alighted, silently observing the street and the people on it.</p><p>Tolgore saw Irthus coming and grinned. “You really need to try one of these,” Tolgore declared, motioning towards the vendor. “Why haven’t I seen more like this before now?”</p><p>“Possibly because most people don’t like their meat raw,” Irthus observed, hoping no one else noticed this oddity of Tolgore’s. He gave the vendor an apologetic look. “I am sorry for my friend’s manners; we’ve been on the road for quite some time. How much do we owe you?”</p><p>“For those two, f-four silvers.” The vendor stammered slightly, still focusing on Tolgore even as he spoke to Irthus. “They're two apiece.”</p><p>“Pay for two more,” Tolgore said, shoving the remainder of the one he was presently devouring into his mouth and then grasping another pair.</p><p>Irthus mustered up a wan smile as he counted out coins for the vendor. <em>Well, I suppose it could be worse. At least he is not eating something that is still alive.</em></p><p>Once he had paid, Irthus began walking down the street, giving Tolgore a look as he did. The barbarian rolled his eyes but followed, starting to tear into the third pie as they went. As they walked, Tony flew down to land on Irthus’ shoulder.  Irthus felt curious eyes on them, no doubt wondering how who they were and how such an odd pair came to be.</p><p>Looking back on it, Irthus could hardly believe it himself sometimes. He had been in the middle of a dig when the warrior he would come to know as Tolgore had stumbled across him. Truth be told, he had expected the man to attack him at first. But to the wizard’s surprise, he had simply asked if there was any food and drink to be had. Irthus had offered both, thus saving them both the trouble of a fight. That might have been the end for it, save for a band of orc raiders that had tried to take them both unaware. Tolgore had hefted one of the dig’s pickaxes while Irthus had mustered flame and illusion to his side, the two of them proving more than a match for the bandits. <em>Years ago, but it feels like yesterday. Where did the time go?</em></p><p>Glancing about, Irthus said to Tolgore, “We should look for somewhere to rest, preferably somewhere with food and drink as well. It’s nearly dark.”</p><p>“Dark doesn’t bother me, you know that.” Tolgore’s tone sounded almost…indulgent. “Besides, don’t those friends of yours have accommodations with the court wizard at the castle?”</p><p>“They can arrange them, if we send word ahead,” Irthus corrected him, his patience starting to fray. “We did not, so they did not. Besides, late as it is, the castle guards will not be inclined to let strangers enter. So, we will have to find somewhere else to rest before we seek out the court wizard in the morning.”</p><p>“Hmph.” Tolgore shrugged as he took a bite from his last pie, going much more slowly than he had with the others. “Alright, then. Do you know anywhere decent?”</p><p>“A few.” Irthus thought about it for a few moments before nodding to himself. “The Crescent Moon. Quiet enough, near the castle. The proprietor owes me a favor, so lodging for the night should be cheap, if not free.”</p><p>“Oh, it will be free.” Tolgore grinned. “I am sure of it.”</p><p><em>Sarin save me. </em>Irthus simply nodded as he began walking, Tolgore following just behind. Thanks to the latter’s detour, instead of walking down the road from the gate to the castle they would have to navigate some of the neighborhoods of Windhollow before they got to the Crescent Moon. And for about ten minutes, they did just that, ducking and weaving through as they wound closer to their destination.</p><p>And then Tolgore’s hand grabbed Irthus’ shoulder. The elf turned to find the barbarian had gone stiff, his eyes gleaming. “What is it?”</p><p>Tolgore slowly turned his head and sniffed, nostrils flaring. “There’s something…no, someone who smells different- no, <em>special</em>.”</p><p>Without waiting for Irthus to reply, the barbarian turned and began walking west, away from the direction Irthus had just turned towards. Gritting his teeth, the elven wizard followed Tolgore, jogging to keep up with him. Another five minutes passed before Tolgore stopped, sliding to the side of the street as he nodded ahead of them.</p><p>Irthus looked past him to stare down the street. At first, he saw nothing special- there were no stands here, though the sound of the market was still loud just a few blocks away. The people he could see were elves for the most part, heading to and from that direction. But then he realized that one of the figures stood out- dressed in black robes, a longsword at his side, with what looked to be bandages wrapped about his head. Two things stood out from this one. The first was his ears, far too long and pointed to belong to any true elf. Odd as those were, they were nothing compared to the second. The man had <em>scales </em>on his face, as though someone had scrapped them off a fish or lizard and plastered them onto his cheeks. He moved quickly and kept his head down, but Irthus could also manage to see that the man’s skin was pink, not hued but a true <em>pink, </em>as though he were sunburned. <em>But that isn’t it at all, is it?</em></p><p>Irthus glanced at Tolgore, whose eyes at that moment resembled Tony’s when the hawk was scouting for prey. “Don’t be too quick, my friend. That one looks to be more capable than a mere bandit.”</p><p>“Any fool could see that,” Tolgore agreed. He smiled as the figure turned his back to them, making his way down the street. “Could be dangerous, that one. Too dangerous too leave unwatched if you ask me.”</p><p><em>Can we not have just one day and night without trouble? </em>“There is no reason I can think of to justify trailing him. Besides, it’s not as if we can sleep in the street while he is in a house.”</p><p>Tolgore grinned and pointed. “Good thing he’s not in a house, then.”</p><p>Irthus turned to see the barbarian was correct- the black-robed figure had turned right and entered a building, which on closer inspection Irthus realized was an inn. Tolgore gave him a triumphant smirk.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, for the love of Sarin.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Prologue: The fisher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fisher was tired of walking. Not in a literal sense- wandering was part of what he did, and his legs could take him for many miles before needing to rest. No, his tiredness was of boredom.</p><p>Normally, he could make do- it helped when he was in an interesting place, a forest or mountain range or something of the like. But these plains, their constant winds and marches and dull, grassy coverings? It got old fast, and the grippli was not pleased knowing that he still had quite a ways to go. Still, the fisher pressed on, frowning slightly at the thought of advancing.</p><p>This was a new part of the world for him. The fisher was used to the Sacred Glade, to grippli’s and elves and wild beasts. To explore was part of the reason he had set out, and he had experienced many things and people, both good and bad. It was one of the former who had suggested heading to the settlement called Windhollow. A farmer from near Helmwood had suggested coming this way. “A new place, full of new people trying to make their fortunes and find their way. You want to learn, to gain knowledge of others and make some coin while doing it? That’s the way to head.”</p><p>Now, the fisher was starting to regret that choice. He needed a new weapon to replace the dagger he had lost to a bear’s teeth not a week past, and the grippli needed a long soak in some water, whether a stream or a bath. Silently cursing his luck, the fisher continued to walk on, knowing the city isn’t much farther.</p><p>As he continued, the fisher saw something growing on the horizon. He slowed his approach as he ddid, carefully examining it as it grew. As he reached it, the grippli realized that it was a trio of stalls, the kind he would have expected to find in a market in a town or city. But there they were, on the side of the road as if they belonged there.</p><p>After hesitating for a few moments, the fisher approached the stalls. There were a few wagons off the road behind them, probably belonging to the same people. There were also a few guards, looking bored but active as they moved about, scanning the horizon while their employers chatted. Said employers were two women and a man, each standing behind a stall. As they saw him, they gave a polite nod, looking at him even as they continued murmuring amongst themselves.</p><p>The fisher walked up and quickly scanned the stall. Food and drink, cloth and armor, bows and blades- he stopped, returning to that third stall to start perusing its wares, standing on his toes to better see what was being sold. Its vender was a woman of average height with a broad chest and muscled arms. She looked like she may have been the one to make many of the weapons that were waiting to be purchased.</p><p>“Oy, little one.” The grippli glanced up to see her frowning at him. “Anything happens to my goods in your hands, then you’ve bought it. Understand?”</p><p>The fisher did not reply with words, just nodding as he withdrew his hand. He slowly paced in front of the stall, scanning the blades for something that would suit his trade.</p><p>Seeing him scan, the stall merchant sighed. “You looking for anything in particular?”</p><p>After a few moments, the fisher nodded. “A small blade, short and sharp.” His voice was strange to a human ear, quiet and echoing, like a noise someone would hear underwater.</p><p>“A dagger perhaps?” The merchant walked to the side of the stall, scanning her inventory. After a few moments, she picked up just that, a dagger, maybe a foot-and-a-half long. It was already unsheathed, so the fisher could see the keen edge it had.</p><p>Still, the grippli shook his head. “I already have one of those.” He reached under his cloak and reveals a dagger much like the one she is holding, though its handle and scabbard are of a different coloring and wood. “I am looking for something more…subtle. Something easier to carry without notice.”</p><p>“Ahh…” The woman looked him up and down. “Not encouraged, selling things like that. But… she glanced about her goods again. “Hold a moment.” She turned and started rummaging about behind the stall, through containers by the sound of it.</p><p>After a few moments, she rose and turned, one hand holding what appears to be a small piece of carved, polished wood. She holds it out for his inspection.</p><p>The fisher took it and looked it up and down. At first he did not know why she handed this to him- he asked for a blade, and she hands him wood in reply? But after taking a closer look, he realized that this is not as it appears- there was an opening in the top of the wood, and a small lever on its side. The fisher looked at her before flicking the lever. A small blade sprang free, jutting out of the wood that hid it from the naked eye. It was small, not even half a foot in length, but a quick inspection reveals that it was <em>very</em> sharp. The fisher looked up at the merchant and nodded.</p><p>She nodded back. “Fifty gold pieces.”</p><p>The grippli stared at her. “That is overpriced and you know it. Twenty.”</p><p>“Not gonna work.” She shook her head. “Things like this aren’t encouraged, remember? But, seeing as you’re kind enough to do you’re shopping outside the city, I’ll knock it down to forty-five.”</p><p>“Too much,” The fisher replied with a shake of his own head. “I can go up to thirty, but that’s all. Won’t have any coin for decent food or sleep if I pay any more.”</p><p>She huffed in reply. “Windhollow’s inns aren’t all that great. Surely you can part with a little more than that. Forty is the lowest I can go. And that’s a bargain, seeing as I’ve knocked a fifth of the price off for ya already, little one.”</p><p>“Thirty-five.” His tone was dead certain. “Final offer. That, and you tell me how much more walking I’ve got ahead of me.”</p><p>She glared at him with an annoyed expression. After a few moments, she relented and held out her hand. The grippli fished out the coins and placed them in her hand, irritated but unsurprised at having to give up an amount of coin like that.</p><p>She counted it out as she addressed him. “Another two hours north. Not too much traffic coming from the south, so I wouldn’t worry about bandits or that kind of thing.”</p><p>The fisher nodded, examining the spring blade. Satisfied with what he found, he crouched to tuck it into his boot, quickly rising in case the merchants or one of their hirelings decide to try anything. They do not, though, so he nodded at them before turning to continue up the road.</p><p>This was not the first time he’d encountered their like- in many cities, it was common for guards or local criminals to insist on a cut of whatever profits a merchant or vendor made. Doing business on the road was riskier, but more profitable as well.</p><p>The fisher sighed as he continued down the road. He had his new weapon, but was still in need of a bed and bath. So, he was happy for once to see a large settlement slowly come into view as he made his way north. He left the road soon after that, using quickness and subtlety to avoid any attention as he came to near the south entrance of Windhollow.</p><p>The gates of the city were not well guarded. It was clear that they thought so- the elves who stood and searched those entering had an air of confidence that seemed to make those they searched more at ease, as though the feeling was contagious. But just because they felt a way did not mean that it was so. This was a lesson the fisher had learned long ago and intended to put to good use now. He pulled up his hood again as he took one final scan of the walls. They were sturdy and strong and had been patrolled often while he had watched. But not often enough, and when the patrols did stop, they did so inside the wall towers. What should have been a challenge was going to be almost too easy. The grippli felt excitement grip him as he began moving.</p><p>He kept low to the ground as he came forward, his thin legs allowing him to move quickly despite crouching. He had mastered the art of moving with speed and stealth long ago, and it served him well now. The elves that guarded this settlement were used to watching for bandits or raiders, the kind of trouble that was loud and pointed and easily spotted. But something as small as the fisher? He doubted they had seen his kind before, and that was the advantage he meant to press home.</p><p>A wagon was coming in. It was heavy, carrying pale stone that the fisher knew they carved into all manner of things. They must have been important- for some reason, they had an escort of elves, a pair of riders who made their passage into the city even easier. For them, and for himself.</p><p>Taking advantage of the quick communication between the riders and their counterparts at the gate, the grippli moved low and swiftly, coming under the wagon. For a man or elf it would have been a tough go, both to move there unseen and remain unnoticed. For him, though, it was a simple matter- no crouching or bending required, only speed and stealth. And he had both in spades.</p><p>As he came under the cart, he glanced about under it. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the ones manning the cart- he was fairly sure he saw a dwarf at the reins, and the man sitting next to him didn’t have the look of a warrior- perhaps a healer, or some sort of caster. Whatever they were, he just hoped that they did not notice his commandeering their cargo for his own reasons.</p><p>Not long after he came under the wagon, it started to move again. He walked in time with its pace, being careful to stay as centered as possible- he did not want the guards to catch a glimpse of small, green legs from the sides. It seemed to work, as no one shouted or tried to investigate further as the wagon entered the city. The fisher gave a low sigh of relief- this was not his first time entering a city without letting others see him, but he could never calm his spirit, though he had long ago mastered his body. The thrill of coming into a place while its masters were oblivious was as trilling now as it had been the first time, “acquiring” supplies to help feed his tribe.</p><p>After coming inside the walls, the cart only moved for a few minutes before stopping. It clearly was not at its final destination- sure enough, the fisher could hear the sound of conversation. He turned hid body, trying to hear better. The voice speaking of fluid and graceful, but also bored. “Past the market, on the northwest corner. Arin does good work, but he’ll try to skim extra coin from you.”</p><p>“Don’t they all?” It must have been the dwarf speaking, his accent and gravelly voice a dead giveaway. He chuckled a bit.</p><p>Some coughs came from the other side of the cart, sounds the fisher recognized as a man’s way of deliberately drawing attention to himself. An odd practice, but it worked as the crunch of boots on dirt signaled the dwarf’s approaching the cougher. There was a light thud as the light figure of the dwarf’s companion dropped onto the ground, springing lightly as he came to stand with the other two.</p><p>That was the chance the fisher had been looking for. He glanced to both sides before going the other way, avoiding the trio. He came out and found a guard not fifteen feet to his right, although the elf was focused on the wagon’s passengers, a stroke of luck the fisher used to quickly glide forward, coming between two buildings and then crouching, allowing the shadows to obscure his figure, even smaller than before. He glanced about, nodding in satisfaction as he concluded that his entrance had gone unnoticed. Curious, he glanced back at the ones whose entry had gained the fisher his own.</p><p>The dwarf was hopping back onto his cart. The other two-both men- were walking away, talking with smiles and chuckles. They were familiar, that much was clear. Yes, the one with the spear was a caster, without a doubt- no spellbook the fisher could see, too clean-looking to be a druid, and no holy symbols he could find. So probably one of those whose magic ran in his blood- a sorcerer. The other was the opposite of the young caster, old and grizzled, boasting tough leather for armor and a sword on his side. The muscle to go with the other’s spells.</p><p>The fisher shakes his head a little at the thought. Even now, he is still amazed at how…different these places were. His own home in the Sacred Glade was nothing like it, and the elves that occasionally ventured within usually had as little use for their kin’s cities as the grippli and his tribe did. The elders spoke of different ways and races, but the extent of the differences was formidable.</p><p>They were separating now. The dwarf and his wagon were moving further in while the two men walked down a side path. The fisher listened and watched. He watched the younger one turn and walk away, laughing as his older counterpart shouted threats that made the grippli blink. He knew humans often made threats they did not mean, but still…</p><p>The caster was not outside long. He scanned a few buildings before choosing one and walking inside. The fisher scanned it himself, realizing that he had found the bed he was looking for- at least, he hoped so. Glancing about, the grippli swiftly followed after the bronze-haired caster into the inn, managing to avoid any unwanted attention as he did.</p><p>By the look of it, this place might have more than just rest for the fisher. For another lesson he had learned some time ago was that when it came to humans and elves, their settlements were rarely as interesting as the ones who found themselves in them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And the prologues are finished!</p><p>Sorry for the long delay. I hope to start posting more regularly from here on out.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The next prologue chapters will be posted over the next couple days. I've been working on them for a while, and hope to introduce all the party members by Monday.</p>
<p>Oh, and forgive the lack of tags. More will come.</p>
<p>Hope y'all enjoy. See you next time.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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